Loyalty
by Parallel Monsoon
Summary: Tim was terrified of the dog at first. But Jethro was a good dog, the kind of dog Tim had always wanted as a kid, and little by little they'd learned to get along. Now Jethro is changing and Tim struggles to understand why. Loyalty has a cost, but one thing Tim knows for sure. No matter what, he won't abandon his pet. A story of a man, his dog, and the unbreakable bond between them
1. Chapter 1

The first few weeks were rough. Tim was nervous around the dog...hell, try terrified.

Jethro seemed to sense his unease and kept a polite distance. When Tim finally worked up the nerve to offer him a treat the shepherd took it from his fingers with delicate care, then snuffled at his palm for more. The touch of his whiskers made Tim chuckle and Jethro brightened at the sound, the furry plume of his tail wagging slowly.

Despite his misgivings, Tim could admit that Jethro was a good dog. The kind of dog he'd always wanted as a kid. He had an expressive doggy face and a wide doggy grin that didn't look in the least threatening despite the big white teeth on display. Tim eased his way from treats to petting, and finally to the rib thumping only possible with a big dog.

Jethro groaned in doggy ecstasy and leaned into Tim so hard he staggered.

Slowly but surely, Tim lost his fear of the dog. He could pat the shepherd's head with confidence, could scold him for stealing a defrosting steak from the counter.

Jethro in turn seemed to be settling in, all that fierce canine loyalty transferring so easily to the very man who had nearly killed him. When Tim slunk home with his figurative tail tucked between his legs after a long day spent absorbing Tony's taunts and Abby's demands, Jethro was there to greet him with his very literal tail wagging wildly.

They settled into a routine. Tim hired a dog walker, figuring it was hardly fair to expect a big, active dog like a German shepherd to spend the majority of his day cooped up inside. After work they headed out to the local dog park. It was a pleasant excuse for Tim to let his mind rest, his only worry defending Jethro's honor when Busky the pug mix tried to resume his ongoing romance with the shepherd's leg.

Then it was back to the apartment for dinner (kibble for Jethro, a TV dinner for Tim, and sometimes he thought he was getting the raw end of the deal.) As the evening wore on, Tim might spend a little time uselessly pounding at the keys of his Remington before settling down to watch Battlestar returns or play Warcraft. Wherever he sat, Jethro would be there at his feet, content to gnaw on a bone and occasionally offer up his opinion on the action with a sneeze.

And it was...nice. Not be alone.

A man, his dog...it all seemed so idyllic. Tim hated that it wasn't, that his own weakness got in the way of even this simple pleasure.

He still dreamed of the attack sometimes. Not even the pain so much as the shock of it, the weight holding him down.

Waking from the nightmares was a brutal affair, leaving him spent and gasping. He'd huddle there in bed, arms wrapped around his knees, biting his lip to hold back his whimpers. So much like a child afraid of the monster in the darkness.

But this monster was real and just on the other side of the closed (and locked) bedroom door. Tim could see the dog's shadow pacing, could hear the rasp of his nails when he pawed at the barrier. Jethro was showing more concern at Tim's distress than his human coworkers ever had, but knowing he was lurking only made Tim shudder.

A month had passed, and he should have been over it by now. Hell, according to the others he should have been over it before the blood had dried. It was disgusting, embarrassing...**weak**.

"McWuss," Tim whispered into the night, "McChicken."

He forced a watery laugh and staggering out of bed and to the door. Jethro hovered in the doorway when it opened, anxious eyes looking over Tim as if searching for signs of injury.

"I'm fine. Come on."

Jethro didn't wait for a second invitation. He scrambled into the room and flopped down beside the bed like he belonged.

Tim didn't sleep again that night, straining instead to catch the noise of the dog's soft snores. The second night was only a little better.

The third Tim woke screaming.

But finally, weeks later, came the night when Tim fell into bed after three straight days of tracing records for a case. He was exhausted and headachy and didn't spare a thought for Jethro.

Sometime after midnight the mattress shifted and Tim blinked open bleary eyes. The dark shape of the dog loomed over him, a prick-eared silhouette. Hot breath touched his cheek.

Tim lifted an arm. Jethro crawled under it and snuggled close, leaving Tim's nose pressed into the shepherd's thick ruff.

Tim smiled and went back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"Again?"

Jethro huffed. Tim sighed but obligingly held out his hand, grimacing when the slimy tennis ball dropped into his palm. The shepherd moved back, crouching low on his front legs but leaving his furry rump and tail stuck high in the air.

"Alright...go get it!"

It was a good throw. The ball sailed across the park before bouncing into the clump of bushes near the fence line. Tim bent back to his book and got in a few more pages before he heard the soft pad of shepherd feet.

"One more time," he warned, "Then we're heading out and I don't want to hear any backtalk, mister."

There'd been a time when he'd thought pet owners silly for chatting with their pets. So far he'd avoided slipping into high tones and made-up words, but talking to Jethro just felt too natural to resist. The big dog definitely understood the gist if not the language, his ears going flat as he backed away from Tim with the ball still clenched firmly between his teeth.

"I don't think he's ready to go home," Sally put in as she sat down beside Tim on the bench. Her own dog, a thin-boned miniature greyhound named Tilly, scrambled up onto her lap as soon as she was settled. "If he were a kid I'd tell you to count to ten."

Tim laughed and ran a hand through his hair, forgetting about the dog spit coating his fingers. "Or I could bribe him with some ice cream. Always worked on me."

He still felt a little shy sometimes around the other owners who frequented the park, even after all these months, but it was true what they said about dog people. They'd been nothing but warm and welcoming since he became one of the regulars.

Sally chuckled and gently pushed Tilly off her perch. "Go play," she urged when the dog cowered back behind her legs. "Oh, don't be like that. Get."

Distracted by the appearance of his favorite canine friend, Jethro dropped his ball and nosed at Tilly's back...though he was careful to stay out of Tim's reach. The tiny greyhound came to life, reacing up to lick at the shepherd's muzzle, the thin strip of her tail wagging hard enough to threaten her balance.

Tim gave the two dogs a few minutes before snapping his fingers and pointing at the ball. Jethro slunk over and picked it up, offering it to Tim with a martyr's air.

"So dramatic," Tim chided, then threw the ball hard. Jethro's angst was forgotten as he dashed after it, Tilly following at his heels.

Sally picked up the paperback at Tim's side and flipped it over to read the back. "Oh, I read this one!," she said, "I won't tell you who did it. Do you read a lot of mysteries?"

"Some." Really Tim would read anything, though he learned more toward science fiction classics and the occasional horror tale. He'd gone through a heavy spurt of mysteries and thrillers, but that had been research for his own ill-fated novel.

They were deep in discussion on the relative merits of Sandford vs. Coben when Sally suddenly cut off mid-sentence and looked around with frown. Tim trailed off as well, jolting to his feet.

**Where were the dogs? **

It wasn't like either of them to roam out of sight. Jethro might play at being disobedient, but he knew some rules weren't meant to be broken. Without speaking Tim and Sally set off to search, heading toward the clump of bushes where the tennis ball had landed.

Tilly met them halfway, scrambling over to her owner and whimpering in that pathetic way unique to small dogs. "What is it, Silly Tilly?" Sally cooed, slipping easily into the pattern Tim so diligently worked to avoid, "Where's your boyfriend?"

Tim felt his cheeks warm at that and hurried forward. Jethro was on the other side of the bushes, the ball at his feet.

"Bad dog," Tim scolded, "You know..."

He faltered, a shiver chasing down his spine. Something was wrong.

If asked he wouldn't have been able to explain just what. There was something about the way Jethro stood...the tilt of his head, the fur bristling at his hackles. Too alert, his gaze focused on the street beyond the fence.

"What's wrong?" Sally asked as she caught up. Tim held out an arm, keeping her from coming any closer.

"Jethro?"

The shepherd growled.

Tim swallowed, hating the way his legs went weak at the sound. Jethro wasn't growling at **him**, but the low rumble brought back memories he'd thought long buried over the six months he'd had the dog. Outside the park passersby went about their businesses, and even Tim's trained eye spotted nothing unusual.

Sally made a small noise of confusion. At her feet Tilly whimpered, shivering despite the warmth of the summer sun. She seemed as reluctant to get near Jethro as Tim himself, creeping back with her whipcord tail tucked high between her legs.

"Jethro," Tim said again, more firmly, "Enough. Let's go."

He snapped his fingers, his signal for a serious command. Jethro startled, whirling around like he was chasing his own tail. Tim took a quick step back, dragging Sally with him.

But all that wary tension was gone between one blink and the next. Jethro wagged his tail, pink tongue lolling from his muzzle.

Tim pointed back toward the bench. Jethro drooped a little but picked up his ball and trotted off, Tilly at his side.

"What **was** that?" Sally asked as they followed their pets, "He seemed scared."

That was exactly it, Tim realized. Jethro had look more frightened than angry, like he was sizing up an enemy and deciding if he should flee or fight. Except there hadn't been anyone there...at least not at far as Tim could tell.

By the time they got back to the bench Jethro had exchanged his ball for his leash. He crouched down a little as he offered it to Tim, back hunched, his posture a far cry from the wiggling play bow he'd given earlier. If Tim didn't know better he'd say the dog looked ashamed.

"Tim?"

"I don't know," Tim said as he clipped the leash to Jethro's heavy leather collar, "I guess he saw or smelled something. I think I'd better take him home."

Looking back later, Tim would realize that was the day it began.

That was the day everything changed.


	3. Chapter 3

I don't typically do author's notes, but I felt the need to give some further information on this fic. I noticed that even in stories where Tim is upset over Jethro's origins, he still quickly comes to accept the dog. I wanted to explore what would happen if things didn't go as smoothly.

Future chapters will include information on dog training and veterinary medicine (I have a background in both.) While the medical aspects are fairly straightforward, dog training as a discipline has evolved rapidly over the past few decades and continues to evolve. Our understanding of the canine mind is still incomplete.

There is no 'right' way to train a dog...there's only what works best for that owner and pet. While Tim will come to some decisions about the methodology he believes in, this is not meant to condemn other systems of training. I would, however, urge those interested to research some of the concepts that will be discussed.

One last thing...this fic is just brimful of angst. If you need specific warnings or spoilers, please PM me and I will be happy to provide them. Thank you to everyone for the reviews!

* * *

They hit the drive-through on the way home. Tim ordered a chicken sandwich for himself and a plain burger for Jethro as a treat, torturing the dog a bit by making him wait until they got back to the apartment.

It didn't surprise him to find an extra patty when he unwrapped the grease-slick paper wrappers, not after the way the cashier had cooed over Jethro when she spotted him in the backseat. The dog had far better luck with the ladies than Tim, but then those melting brown eyes **were** a powerful weapon.

When both their bellies were full Tim settled down on the couch, flipping idly through the channels. Jethro lay nearby, chewing with intense concentration on a Kong toy stuffed with peanut butter.

He certainly seemed back to his usual self, and already Tim had dismissed that strange moment at the park as just one of the mysteries of the canine mind. Probably Jethro had caught a whiff of burning joint on the breeze, and if so Tim was just thankful the shepherd hadn't followed old instincts and sounded the alarm.

His own reaction to the dog's brief disappearance had left a much deeper impression.

There'd been a moment there where Tim had imagined the worst. The overactive imagination that had served him so well as a writer had taunted him with all manner of nightmare scenarios, each more gruesome and disturbing than the last.

The ball bouncing high over the fence and Jethro following after. The squeal of brakes and a cut-off yelp.

The shepherd wagging his tail and giving ground at the approach of a strange dog. A bigger, stronger, **meaner** dog. A flash of teeth and Jethro whimpering in the dirt with blood bubbling from his throat.

A man calling to the shepherd, patting his hip and holding out a treat. Jethro, too trusting, stolen away and condemned to a new life in a fighting ring. A bait dog, used as a training tool for the true pit fighters to practice on.

Poisoned meat. A bee sting leading to anaphylactic shock.

Tim took a deep, slow breath. Exhaled even slower and ran a hand over his face.

_'He's fine. Nothing happened. Everything's fine.' _

As if to prove it Jethro was suddenly there, pawing gentle at Tim's leg and staring up with those eyes that had charmed food from a harried cashier, his tail wagging a slow question. Tim nodded gladly and patted the couch cushions.

"Just for tonight," he warned, like he always did.

Jethro hopped up easily and settled down on 'his' side. It was only a matter of time before he would start inching his way over, and soon enough he'd be cutting off circulation in Tim's legs, masquerading as a lapdog despite his seventy plus pounds.

Tim settled on the latest SyFy schlock fest, but he couldn't seem to focus on the tentacled monster of the week. It was strange, the depth of the panic he'd felt when he looked around and realized Jethro wasn't there.

He glanced over at the shepherd just as Jethro crawled closer. The shepherd froze, then twisted to gnaw on his own flank like he hadn't just been caught in the act.

Tim laughed.

And it hit him then, like a blow, like a betrayal.

"**Oh**," he said aloud, because somehow he hadn't **known**.

The bond between pet and owner can develop in an instant. In a county shelter a woman comforts a skittish cat and falls in love. A puppy waddles away from his littermates to chew the shoelaces of the man he'll spend the rest of his life adoring. A child pulls the tail of a nanny dog, who heaves a sigh and devotes herself to guarding this strange small creature.

For Tim, the bond blossomed slowly, so slowly it caught him unaware. It took six months and one near panic attack in the park for him to realize something Jethro had never questioned.

"Guess what, buddy?" Jethro gave up pretending to chew an itch and tilted his head, looking very much interested in what Tim had to say. Nothing gave an ego boost quite like the undivided attention of a canine.

"You're **my** dog."

* * *

Two weeks later, Tim sat on the couch with Jethro draped across his knees. One hand scratched under the thick fur of the dog's ruff, the other turned the pages of his Kindle.

Another quiet night, just like all the others.

Though Tim would try to find something to make it different, to make it special, a way to **explain** what happened next.

Maybe the dog walker hadn't take Jethro out for long enough, leaving the shepherd with too much pent-up energy. Maybe Tim had smelled of blood, the scent of death clinging to his pores after a day bagging and tagging a crime scene. Maybe Jethro had been bitten by a flea or tick, a sudden sharp pain that made him react on reflex.

There was no growl, no warning. Just a sudden, sharp pain in Tim's arm, and instinct made him pull away even before he understood the source.

It registered only slowly, leaving Tim shaking his head in denial. Jethro seemed to realize what he'd done that same instant. The shepherd scrambled off the couch and backed away with his tail tucked between his legs, whimpering high in his throat like a puppy.

Tim made a wide circle around the dog on his way to the bathroom. He fumbled with his sleeve, shaking now as shock set in.

It wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected. A few scraps and a mild puncture, but Tim scrubbed the area hard and dumped half a jar of hydrogen peroxide over it. After his first encounter with Jethro the EMTS had warned him dog bites were dirty and prone to infection. The antibiotics they'd given him as a precaution had left him queasy and tired, making it a trial to drag himself through work each day until the course was done. He didn't want to take any chances.

(Not that any of his coworkers had noticed how he struggled. Not that anyone had cared.)

When he emerged half an hour later Jethro greeted him with a wagging tail. He yawned wide, teeth and curling tongue glistening in the light.

Tim stood staring, still trying to absorb what had happened.

**Jethro had bitten him. **

* * *

Tim thought he could be forgiven for being nervous around Jethro for a few days. He knew the shepherd didn't understand why he wasn't allowed up on the couch anymore or why Tim refused to pet him when he first came home, opting instead to shower away any foreign odors on his skin.

But it was hard to stay vigilant when Jethro seemed so...normal. A month passed. Jethro played with Tilly at the park and slobbered over his tennis balls. The dog walker reported the shepherd was a model client, as always.

Just as Tim thought he could be forgiven for being wary, he thought he could be forgiven for letting down his guard.

When it happened again, it was only luck that kept Tim from a potentially serious injury. He was bending down to put Jethro's bowl in its elevated stand while the shepherd sat patiently to one side, the way he shifted his weight between his front paws the only sign of his excitement.

This time there was a growl, just a small one. The sound made Tim look over, and this close he saw the dog's pupils dilate until the warm brown of the irises was a thin rim around the black. Slowly the shepherd's hackles rose, his ruff a bristly mane. His lips pulled back to show not only the full length of his teeth but also slick pink gum.

Tim noted the individual details, but his mind refused to put them together into a context that made sense. He was frozen, too confused even for fear.

But his body was quicker on the uptake, and when Jethro lunged pure instinct made Tim jerk back. Big white teeth clicked closed less than an inch from his nose and warm salvia splattered his cheeks.

Backed up against the counter, there was nowhere for Tim to go. He braced himself to kick out, but already Jethro was calming. He shook himself and licked his lips, and suddenly he was **Jethro** again. A good dog, eyeing the kibble Tim had spilled but waiting for permission to assist in the clean-up.

Tim clicked his tongue against his teeth, releasing the dog from his stay. Jethro went to work vacuuming up the pebbles of food, quite happy with this new game.

Tim dropped into a kitchen chair and slowly felt his cheeks and nose, a little surprised to find he wasn't bleeding.

Thus far, Tim had done a decent job of pretending each incident was separate from the rest. But now the pattern was clear, and Tim couldn't afford to ignore it.

What if it had been Sarah? She loved to fuss over the shepherd. Or Tilly? One snap of Jethro's jaws and the little greyhound would be torn to pieces.

"We're going to fix this," Tim promised his dog while Jethro nosed about, hunting down that last elusive bit of kibble, "We'll be okay"

But how could he believe that when he didn't even understand what had gone wrong?


	4. Chapter 4

The bedroom door shut with a quiet click. Tim flinched at the sound, and flinched again when Jethro's whine drifted through the wood.

Who would have thought he'd actually miss inhaling fur in the night? The bed felt too big without the shepherd taking up more than his fair share of space.

Tim expected to dream, to wake with his heart pounding a frantic beat. But when he finally slept it was soundly, his anxious mind finally succumbing for scarcely an hour before the alarm ripped him from blissful slumber with its angry buzz.

At least his long fretful night had been constructive. Tim fumbled with the alarm with one hand and reached for his phone with the other, wasting no time in setting his plan in motion.

Gibbs didn't ask questions when Tim informed him he'd be a few hours late to the office, which suited Tim just fine. Any other situation and he might have felt guilty for taking time off to deal with a personal issue. Then again, this particular problem would never have existed without interference from his coworkers. Let them run their own searches for a bit.

He felt ashamed of his thoughts as soon as he opened the bedroom door. Jethro lay in his dog bed just on the other side...a dog bed that normally resided in a corner of the living room. '_Hell_.' Picturing the shepherd wrestling with the overstuffed cushion just so he could be closer to his owner was enough to make Tim tear up.

Jethro scrambled to his feet, wagging his tail and jumping up on Tim as if they'd been separated for far longer than eight hours. As badly as Tim wanted to return his affection, those teeth were too close to his face for comfort.

"Sit," he ordered, and only when Jethro obeyed did he stroke the dog and rub those big velvet ears.

Tim made some more calls while the shepherd ate his morning meal, skipping his own breakfast in deference to his queasy belly. It didn't take long to make the arrangements.

Jethro looked confused when Tim led him to the car instead of down the street for his usual early morning walk. But he was always eager for a ride, jumping into the backseat and holding still so Tim could hook his safety harness into the seatbelt.

"I'm so sorry about this," Tim told the dog while he worked his way through the rush hour traffic, "I just don't know what else to do."

Jethro wuffed in answer and pressed his muzzle against the window, adding yet another doggy nose print to the others already decorating the glass. It wasn't until they pulled into the parking lot that that the shepherd seemed to realize he wasn't going to the park.

If a dog could look betrayed, Jethro was certainly playing the part. He refused to look at Tim when he opened the back door of the car, his slumped posture and pinned ears the very definition of canine woe.

"I **know** you don't like it here," Tim pleaded, "But I **have** to do it. Do you understand? I don't have a choice."

In the end only the promise of a biscuit got Jethro out of the vehicle. Once on leash his training kicked in and he heeled without hesitation, dropping into a perfect sit when Tim stepped up to the receptionist counter.

"I called just a bit ago. I'm sorry for the short notice."

The young man wore a name tag and a bright uniform in red and black. "It's no problem, Mr. McGee. I can take him back for you..."

He came around the counter, already reaching for the leash. Tim took a quick step back, tugging Jethro with him.

"I'll take him."

But it took all of Tim's courage to guide the shepherd down the long white halls. Jethro padded along easily, his earlier reluctance already fading. His tail was starting to sway, and somehow that only made Tim feel worse.

"Here we go," Gus the receptionist said, gesturing toward a kennel at the end of the row, "You can put him here for now. Justin will be out in just a minute to go over everything."

Tim nodded, opening the kennel door and gesturing Jethro in.

He meant to simply walk away. No sense in drawing things out, in making it harder for both of them. Instead he found himself kneeling down and hugging his dog, a little too tightly by Jethro's small grunt of protest.

"I'm so sorry," he said again, "I wish...I wish there was a different way."

Another squeeze and then he stood, shutting the wire door before Jethro could try to follow him out. The shepherd almost instantly turned his back, gluing his nose to the floor as he tried to absorb the odors of all the dogs that had come before.

"He'll be fine," Gus said, and Tim could tell just how hard the man was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, "Here's Justin now."

Tim shook hands with the kennel manager. He'd used Red Rooster Boarding in the past, choosing them based on their excellent reputation and oversized enclosures. Each of the deluxe kennels connected with its own outdoor area, so at least Jethro would get some fresh air and exercise while Tim was at work.

Sometime in the night, Tim had realized he needed to fire his dog walker. Alberto was a big guy, but his muscles wouldn't protect him against Jethro's teeth.

Sometime in the night, Tim had realized he couldn't trust his own dog.

He'd already spoken with Justin over the phone, so Tim just quickly rehashed what he expected. No one was to handle Jethro...even his food would be passed through a slot in the bottom of the kennel door. There was paperwork to sign, including liability contracts, and then it was over.

Tim walked past Jethro's enclosures on the way to the exit, but the dog was already outside and likely dozing in the heat. For all of his dramatics on arrival, he always settled quickly and would probably protest leaving when Tim came to pick him up. As a drug dog he'd likely spent time in kennels and would have been used to being confined.

Still, Tim realized this was only a temporary solution. It wasn't fair to expect Jethro to go all day without human interaction, and even a big enclosure wouldn't give him room to run.

Part of him thought he was overreacting. Making too much of things when Jethro hadn't even drawn blood. Surely he'd done something wrong, had startled the dog somehow.

But until he could figure out just what triggered the dog to snap, Tim couldn't risk the safety of others. He already knew what the dog could do, the strength in those jaws. The scars on his neck and wrist were a permanent reminder of the damage a German shepherd could inflict on frail flesh.

* * *

Later that morning, Tim made the mistake of mentioning Jethro's troubling behavior to Abby.

It earned him a lecture on dominance, with the not-very-subtle implication that he knew nothing of the concept. She even printed out the dictionary definition, then rolled the paper into a tube and whacked him over the head with it.

"Bad McGee! I can't believe you're locking that poor dog up!"

For just an instant Tim badly wanted to tell her she was free to pick Jethro up from the kennel and establish 'dominance' over him if she wanted to. Not that she have taken him up on it, of course, but still...he didn't want to see her get hurt.

"It wasn't like that." Tim didn't know how to explain, how to put into words the way Jethro had looked at him, had looked **through** him. "He's not that kind of dog."

He wasn't prepared for the head slap from behind and it jolted him forward a step. "All packs need a strong leader," Gibbs said, and just how did he always manage to appear out of the ether like that? "Even yours, McGee."

Then he was pressing them for a breakthrough on the case and scowling when Tim once again failed to pull a miracle out of thin air. Tim was relieved when he was able to scuttle back to his computer and away from Abby's scolding and his boss's disappointment.

Between them, they'd made it very clear that if Jethro had a problem, it was Tim. As much as he'd already suspected it, he didn't much like having it confirmed.

It meant he'd deserved what he'd gotten.

Deserved it for being weak.

Tim squared his shoulders and went back to work.


	5. Chapter 5

Abby did do Tim one favor. He returned from fetching lunch for the team to find a large stack of paper waiting at his desk. A cartoon puppy drawn on a post-it wore a spiked collar and admonished him in jagged block letters to study up for tomorrow's quiz.

The print-outs turned out to be a crash course on becoming top dog. Tim flipped idly through it as he ate his sandwich, finding a mix of information from various sources arranged with little rhyme or reason. He stopped at a bulleted list of positions in wolf pack hierarchy. Alpha at the top, then beta. Gamma in the middle, and at the very bottom the omega, the designated punching bag for the rest of the pack.

Next Tim skimmed through an article written by a self-proclaimed authority on canine aggression. The man cheerfully advised pinning biting dogs to the floor to establish leadership over them. Tim snorted, wondering if the man had ever tried this 'alpha roll' technique on a muscled German shepherd, and if so if he'd survived with his face intact.

The mental image of Mr. Tough-Guy Trainer manhandling snarling Pomeranians and Pekingese was so amusing that Tim didn't see Tony coming until the other man was already looming over him. Tim sighed when his teammate showed his teeth and growled, disappointed but not surprised that Abby had once again been so quick to share the latest scuttlebutt.

"I heard there's some trouble in paradise. Doggy getting the better of you, McChewtoy?"

_'Fuck you, Tony.' _

As always Tim felt a spike of deep shame bordering on horror for thinking something so unkind. But how many times had he swallowed back those words? They'd been lodged in his throat for so long, ever since the day Tony had laughed at Tim for cowering away from the snarls of digital dogs only hours after a very real canine had mauled his flesh.

But swallow them down he did, and that at least wasn't weakness. It took more strength to endure than to lash out, no matter how justified his anger.

Tim would know. He was an expert on endurance.

"You know...you could take some tips from Jethro about how to treat the ladies. At least **he** doesn't slobber all over them," he told Tony in a musing tone.

As retorts went the non sequitur was weak, but its very randomness flustered Tony into silence. Sadly it didn't last long, but then it never did. They squabbled until Gibbs coughed at his desk, glaring at them both over the top of his monitor.

Tony retreated back to his own area with a swagger, taking Tim's doughnut with him. Tim didn't bother protesting the theft.

When it came to his team at NCIS, Tim already knew his place.

* * *

Tim picked Jethro up from the kennel on his way home. The dog seemed no worse for wear from his imprisonment, but Tim still felt guilty enough to take the shepherd for a **long** run around the neighborhood. They were both panting by the time they made it back to the apartment.

Jethro made a beeline for his water dish, then flopped down on the cool kitchen floor. _'A good dog is a tired dog.'_ It was one of the few pieces of advices from Abby's articles that made sense to Tim, and he smiled a little when Jethro stretched out his legs with a huff.

He dropped the stack of paper on the table and looked at it glumly. He intended to read it through more thoroughly, but most of it what he'd already glanced at in the office didn't seem to apply. He didn't really recognize Jethro in the problem dogs the trainers described.

"Thank God for that," Tim told the shepherd, "I don't think I could handle it if you tried to eat through the door every time I left you alone."

Jethro wagged his tail without lifting his head. Tim chuckled and turned back to his 'homework', determined to keep an open mind.

* * *

It took Tim almost two hours to finish reading and taking notes. By the time he reached the bottom of the stack he was frowning, his forehead furrowed deep.

He glanced over at the snoozing shepherd, feeling like he was seeing Jethro for the first time.

Learning just how little he apparently knew about the canine mind had left Tim feeling shaky and naive. According to the articles he'd been doing everything wrong from day one, treating Jethro too much like a companion instead of the devious mastermind he supposedly was.

When Tim heaved a sigh Jethro lifted his head, those big shepherd ears swiveling toward the sound. "According to this, you're a dominant dog and feel the need to take control." Tim patted his notepad, his own printing cramped and sharp where fatigue and frustration had gotten the better of him. "When I think you're being affectionate, you're really showing me you're the boss."

Refreshed after his post-walk nap, Jethro bounced to his feet and pushed his head into Tim's hands, begging for scritches. Tim quickly stood, putting his arms behind his back and turning slightly away from the dog.

"See? That's what I'm talking about. Jethro, sit."

The shepherd's furry rump hit the floor.

It felt stupid, making the dog perform to earn the attention Tim was used to giving freely. But over and over the trainers had repeated that nothing in life could be given freely to a dominant dog, even something as simple as a friendly pat.

Now that Jethro had obeyed his command, Tim was free to pet him. But not too much, and he took care not to lean over least he appear smaller than his natural gangly height.

Jethro looked disappointed when Tim withdrew, wagging his tail a little tentatively. "See, even though you're dominant, you'll secretly be happier and less stressed if your owner takes control," Tim told him, letting his voice go low and deep, a professor lecturing his class of one. "You don't **really** want to be the boss, you just **think** you do."

Now the dog just looked confused. Tim sympathized.

"Turns out you're one complicated puppy. Who knew?"

Jethro tipped his head and offered a paw with a whine, evidently trying to figure out the rules to this new game. Tim laughed and bent down...

...then hesitated, unsure if shaking the dog's paw would count as giving in. Slowly Jethro lowered his leg, and Tim supposed that meant he'd won.

So why did it feel like they were both losing out?

* * *

Tim stuck with the plan for the rest of the week. He made sure he ate before Jethro, went through doors ahead of the shepherd, and kept the dog off the furniture.

He was so aware now of every interaction with his dog. He used to think Jethro liked to let his paw rest atop Tim's foot when he sat at his side because he liked being close to his owner. Now that little moment meant something more sinister, and Tim had to move away, had to reclaim control and turn his back.

It was exhausting.

But slowly Jethro seemed to be getting the message. He stopped offering his leash, leaving it to Tim to instigate their walks. He spent less time at his master's feet, taking his Kong to the dog bed in the corner instead and gnawing at it half-heartedly.

It was those mournful eyes that finally broke Tim. Experts be damned, treating his dog like this just felt **wrong**.

So Tim did what he always did when he felt unsure.

He researched.

* * *

When Jethro first came into his life, Tim had done his due diligence. He'd compared kibble brands, settling finally on a premium (and costly!) variety with 'no by-products' and 'wholesome, high-quality protein.' The shepherd's vet had been selected based on her published papers on large breed health and glowing recommendations from owners at the dog park. Even the dog's toys were chosen for their durability and safety.

Jethro was his first pet, and Tim meant to do things right.

The only subject Tim **hadn't** read up on was training. He'd simply never felt the need. Jethro came when he was called. He did his business outside. He was calm in the house and didn't pull on walks.

He'd been the perfect dog...and most of the time he still was. It made his random moments of aggression that much harder to understand.

Tim started out by looking up the trainers featured in Abby's bundle. Most of them were well-known and respected, and one even starred on his own television series. Tim swallowed, feeling almost guilty for his doubt. He didn't have the experience to question people who had built their lives around working with problem canines.

He widened his search, fully expecting to find variations on a theme. It seemed like the question of how best to train a dog had been answered, and Tim was just going to have to suck it up and get with the program.

* * *

Hours later, Tim came up for air. He rolled his aching shoulders and rubbed at his temples, his overworked brain struggling to digest everything he'd learned.

But where he'd been frowning after reading Abby's papers, now Tim wore a small smile. It turned out the lab tech had only seen fit to give him one point of view out of many. Just finding there were other methods was a relief...even if Tim **was** more confused now than he'd been before he sat down at the computer.

While Abby's chosen trainers had many supporters, it turned out they were a little behind the times. The latest studies on canine behavior didn't even support the existence of dominant dogs...or wolves, for that matter. The research on wolf pack hierarchy had been based on captive packs made up of wolves that were strangers to each other, thrown together and left to fight it out in a way that never happened in the wild.

It turned that alpha in wolf terms just mean mom and dad, not leaders by right of fang and claw. The wolves on top were the parents of the others, treated with subservience by default instead of bloody battles fought and won.

Not that it mattered how a wild wolf pack was arranged. The other interesting research Tim had come across indicated that dogs **weren't** wolves. It seemed obvious in hindsight, but many trainers acted as if the two were one and the same even as they got the basic facts about wolf behavior all wrong.

The long process of domestication had changed dogs, warping their behaviors out of recognition from their ancient ancestors. The feral dogs of rural towns were the closest examples of unfettered canine social life...and they didn't form stable packs like wolves, instead living in pairs and interacting with their territory neighbors without overt violence. A wolf would kill an interloper on its land, but the more social feral dogs, including the dingoes of Australia, rarely did.

Tim shook his head, laughing a little at his own knowledge thirsty mind. It was all very interesting...but what did it mean for his relationship with Jethro?

A soft weight on his foot made him look down. Jethro sat beside him, leaning against Tim's leg now but looking into the other room as if he could deny his own 'misbehavior' if he didn't acknowledge his owner.

"Hey."

Slowly Jethro looked up, putting back his ears and nudging hopefully at Tim's elbow with his nose.

Dominant pseudo-wolf? Or just a social animal made dependent on interaction over the course of 15,000 years?

For all his research and reading, Tim knew only one thing for sure in the end. He needed help...and if that meant he was weak, he'd learn to live with it.

"You're a good boy," Tim said, and rubbed his dog's ears.


	6. Chapter 6

After a week of research Tim came up with a short list of four trainers, each with extensive experience and impressive credentials.

Three accepted readily when he asked to sit on a class without Jethro before he made a commitment. The fourth not only demanded cash upfront but told Tim he had a policy against letting owners observe his 'process' at all.

"They just interfere," he explained, "Trust me, by the end of the month you'll have a different dog."

Tim hung up without bothering to explain that he didn't **want** a different dog. He just wanted the dog he remembered **back**.

One down.

* * *

Tim found himself wincing when the sour-faced woman gave another sharp yank on the choke chain. The young bull mastiff on the other end of the leash just pulled harder in response, towing her a few feet before another harsh correction made him mind.

He wasn't opposed to physical discipline when it served a purpose, but even a novice like Tim could tell this particular trainer had a heavy hand. Even more disturbing was her refusal to make allowances for the personalities of her 'students'. With the mastiff she seemed determined to get into a fight she couldn't win, her victory short-lived when he suddenly surged forward and nearly pulled her arm from its socket.

A few minutes later she turned her attention to a petite young lab, checking the dog with the force she'd used for the mastiff pup. The lab yelped and urinated on herself, and that was when Tim stood and walked out.

* * *

The next morning Tim found himself hiding a groan instead of a wince. A fifteen minute lecture on 'connecting to the soooooul of the dog' hadn't been what he was expecting. Even the canines were starting to look bored while the young man at the center of the circle rattled on. Tim could have sworn he saw a pint-sized Chinese Crested roll her eyes.

**Finally** the trainer trailed off and the real work began. The man seemed to have a handle on the basics, Tim would grant him that. Certainly the dogs seemed to love him, flocking to his feet whenever they were allowed off leash.

But Tim soon realized the man rarely had a concrete answer when asked about anything more complicated than 'sit' and 'stay.' The owner of a terrier who was tearing up her houseplants got an admonishment not to interfere with her dog's natural instincts to dig.

"Earth dog trials," Tim suggested to her in a whisper when the trainer's back was turned, "He gets to get dirty, you get to sit back and watch."

He'd been doing more reading over the weekend about canines in general and shepherds in particular, and one of his discoveries had been just how much breed affected behavior. The trainer's advice wasn't necessarily bad...Jack Russell terriers were hunting dogs, bred to slip down dark tunnels after badgers and foxes. But Buster needed a better outlet then his owner's prized ficus, and Earth Dog trials were all about releasing the pent-up instincts of this notoriously hyperactive breed.

As the class went on it became abundantly clear the trainer had only one tool in his box.

Treats, and plenty of them.

Which certainly explained why the dogs in the group watched his every move like he might explode at any minute into a shower of liver snaps. It also explained why quite a few were more than a little rotund, their bloated bellies swaying hypnotically with their feeble attempts to trot.

* * *

One to go.

* * *

Tim stammered his way through a greeting, ducking his head a little to hid his blush. There was something about the man in front of him that set his stomach churning, that made his palms sweat and shoulders hunch. It wasn't until Tim managed to met the trainer's eyes that he understood why he'd been so quickly reduced to the spineless geek he really was inside.

_'Gibbs_.'

On the surface Jeff Barnes had little in common with Tim's boss. Barnes was dark-skinned and solidly built, his hand engulfing Tim's when they shook. Tim himself wasn't a short man, but Barnes had two heads on him easy and would have towered over the lankier Gibbs.

But his gaze had the same uncanny focus, taking the measure of Tim and no doubt finding him wanting. If the intensity of Gibb's stare brought to mind Tim's father, then so Barnes reminded Tim of both the men he wanted most in the world to please. He squirmed, and hated himself for it.

More research. He would do more research, find a few more trainers to test out...if this stood any chance of working, he would need to be able to ask for help without embarrassment. That had never been the case with Leroy Gibbs, and at the moment Tim couldn't imagine he would fare away better Jeffery Barnes.

Despite his misgivings, Tim was too polite to simply turn tail and flee. Barnes introduced him to his client of the hour, an older man named Marcus, then directed Tim to a chair. He'd been clear over the phone that a dog like Jethro would require individual attention, and had arranged for Tim to observe a private session instead of a group class like the others.

Marcus' problem child was a piebald mutt obsessed with chasing the family's many cats and children. The man admitted to Tim that he'd ignored Duke's bad habits when he'd been a fat little pup, but once he'd started to nip it had stopped being cute in a hurry.

Barnes was firm with the dog without being severe, only administering one leash correction after Duke balked at obeying a command he'd already mastered. He was just as patient with Marcus, explaining not only his methods but the reasoning behind them every step of the way.

When the man confessed to feeling frustrated Barnes just nodded.

"It **is** frustrating. Just remember how far you've already come. Nothing is solved overnight, but I know you're committed to making this work, Marcus. We'll get there."

Those simple words of empathy and acknowledgement had Marcus smiling down at his dog and moving into the next exercise with renewed determination. They ended things on a high note when Goggles resisted the temptation to break his stay and chase down a ball thrown temptingly past his nose.

"How soon can we start?" Tim asked when Marcus and Goggles were gone.

"Considering the issue, I can work you in this weekend." Barnes considered Tim for another long moment before the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. "You looked a little unsure at first. Can I ask what changed your mind?"

Tim shrugged. "You reminded me of someone."

"I take it that wasn't a good thing," Barnes said. His laugh was surprising, high-pitched and infectious.

"Just a mistake," Tim said, "You're nothing like him at all. "

* * *

Tim woke swinging. Thrashing against his sheets, hand scrabbling across his nightstand in search of a gun that wasn't there.

The crash of his lamp hitting the floor and the strobe of lightning through the curtains only added to his disorientation. The boom of thunder that followed swallowed up Tim's humiliating yelp and rattled the windows.

It had only just been starting to drizzle when Tim had called it a night, the gentle patter of the rain helping to ease him off to sleep. Now the downpour drummed against the building and the wind wailed. Tim rubbed a hand over his face and rolled his head in the vain hope of easing the tension in his neck. He couldn't remember the dream he'd fought so hard to escape and didn't try, focusing instead on slowing his breathing.

The next crack of thunder sounded like it came from just overhead. Tim flinched, then shook his head and laughed at his own reaction. Even as a kid he'd loved storms, curling up in front of the window to watch the world lit up and the streets flood. Still, there was something a little disquieting about the way the wind kept surging, dying down completely before swelling into a wild, undulating wail that brought up the hairs on the nape of Tim's neck.

_'Shit'_

Tim lurched to his feet and promptly toppled over, his legs still tangled in the sheets. He kicked free, leaving them in a heap on the floor as he threw open the bedroom door and hurried down the hall.

That wasn't the wind.

He made his way through the dark apartment to the living room, still feeling groggy and almost hung-over after only a few hours of restless sleep. He wasn't entirely sure he wasn't still caught in a dream until his barefoot found a soggy piece of well-chewed rawhide. This time he cursed aloud, standing on one leg and flexing his clammy toes while he fumbled for the wall switch.

The light hit like a blow. Too bright, too much, a brutal shock to his already muddled senses. Tim blinked against the afterimages until his vision cleared, then simply stood staring.

The living room looked like a very unfortunate cloud had met a brutal end, the floor covered in drifts of fluffy white. Fresh blood speckled the mounds, shockingly crimson against the pristine backdrop.

Tim's sleep muddled brain considered his options. Should he start bagging and tagging or call in the scene? What exactly was the protocol for celestial murder?

Then the thunder came again, and in the corner Jethro swung back his head and howled.

The shepherd sat on the sad remnants of what had once been a plump doggy bed. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth and dotted his lips as he bayed at the ceiling. Even from across the room Tim could seek the dog was shaking, the shredded plaid fabric under his haunches suspiciously damp.

Tim shook his head in denial. Once he'd recognized the shepherd's howls for what they were, his only thought had been to find his dog, to discover what was wrong and **fix** it.

But now he hesitated. Because the howl was breaking up into deep-throated snarls, and Tim didn't know **how** to fix this. This wasn't the first storm they'd weathered together, and Jethro had never so much as blinked at weather wilder than this.

Confusion wasn't the only thing that made him falter. Maybe dogs weren't wolves, but in that moment there was nothing domesticated about the shepherd. When Tim finally did move it was to take a step back, the shame of that already cutting deep.

Another flash, another earth-shaking rumble of thunder. Another howl, building and building until Tim had to fight the urge to scream in answer.

The phone rang.

* * *

Tim shot a wild-eyed look of panic at the shrilly ringing device and reacted with pure instinct. "Hey! Jethro, sit!"

The shepherd startled badly and slammed back against the wall, his howl cut off by a puppyish yelp. He whirled to face Tim, the fur on his hackles bristling, his lips pulling back to show those big, big teeth.

Tim clapped his hands together, the skin of his palms stinging with the impact. "Sit," he said again, and later he would be proud at the way his voice stayed low and firm.

He saw the instant Jethro recognized him. His tail hit the floor and he whimpered, licking his chops and doing a little dance with his front paws. Wanting so badly to run to Tim, but staying put like the good boy he was.

Tim ignored him for the moment and reached for the phone.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, "I am really, **really** sorry."

He was lucky to get that much in. Ten minutes later his neighbor across the hall finally started to wind down, throwing out one last warning that he would be calling the building's manager if that 'damned mutt' ever so much as sneezed in the middle of the night again.

It wasn't a threat Tim could afford to take lightly. Only his solid history as a good tenet had convinced the landlady to make an exception to the building's pet policy, which allowed only dogs fifteen pounds and under. "I promise it will **never** happen again...what can I do to make it up to you?"

They settled on a check to cover a day's wages so the man could call in sick instead of suffering through work without a full night's rest. Tim apologized a few more times before hanging up with a sigh.

He'd have to make the rounds in the morning and apologize to the other tenets. They all knew Jethro and many had dogs of their own, so he was hopeful they would be more understanding. Though it would have made things easier if he could have given some kind of explanation for why his normally stoic shepherd had so utterly lost control.

Jethro was still cringing low with every bang from the skies above, his tail tucked so tightly it looked painful. Still he brightened when Tim looked at him, straining toward his owner without actually standing.

Tim dropped into a squat and opened his arms, because he couldn't ignore his dog's fear, couldn't turn away when Jethro needed him so badly.

"Come 'ere."

Jethro threw himself into Tim's arms with force enough to knock him off balance. Tim dropped one knee into a more stable kneeling position, letting the shepherd huddle close.

"Easy, easy now. You're okay. It's okay."

Jethro whined low and licked Tim's chin. He was still shaking, crouching down low like scolded puppy. Tim ran his hands over the dog, searching for the source of the blood glistening on the floor. He finally found a cracked nail on Jethro's left forepaw, but it had already stopped oozing and he left it be for now.

He chuckled lightly when he discovered the 'foam' around the dog's muzzle was only scraps of cotton stuffing, his memories of watching 'Cujo' as a kid fading just slightly. The laughter died quickly and Tim closed his eyes, hugging Jethro closer and feeling his own body tremble as shock set in.

"I wish you could talk," he told the dog as he shifted until he could lean back against the couch and stretch out his legs, "It would make things so much easier."

As soon as he was settled Jethro crawled into his lap, curling up in an awkward ball of gangly legs and thick shepherd tail.

An hour passed slowly. Tim soothed his dog while the sky raged, and it dawned on him that while he might not always trust Jethro, Jethro trusted **him**. He looked to Tim for protection, and the weight of that was surprisingly heavy.

"Think your faith might be misplaced, bud," Tim mumbled.

Jethro yawned and nudged at Tim's hand when it slowed in its rhythmic petting. When Tim stopped altogether he lifted his head and fixed his owner with a pitiful look that could have rivaled DiNozzo at his begging best.

Tim laughed. "Now you're just milking it," he told the shepherd, "I hope you realize a new bed is coming out of your pay. I'm not sure how many bones that'll add up to, but I'm pretty sure it'll wipe out your savings."

Jethro snorted and wiggled around until he was on his back, still draped across Tim's legs. Tim gasped when the shepherd kicked him in a rather delicate area in the process of readjusting, but who could resist those big brown eyes and lolling tongue?

Tim checked his watch as he rubbed the dog's belly. It was nearly dawn. In a few hours he could call Barnes and see about getting their session moved up a few days, even if it meant taking a long lunch from work. But for now...

The storm was passing.


	7. Chapter 7

"Try to relax a little, Tim. This isn't an interrogation."

Tim breathed out a soft chuckle and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his back still aching after the long night on his living room floor. "Sorry," he apologized, "Not sure why I'm so nervous."

"You're afraid I'm going to tell you that Jethro's issues are your fault," Barnes said easily. He grinned when Tim's head jerked up, rolling his massive shoulders in a slow motion shrug. "Have you ever purposely hurt him, Tim?"

The very idea made Tim snarl. "Of course not!"

"Then it isn't your fault. It's possible you've made mistakes, but then everyone does. But I'm not interested in who's to blame...I'm only interested in fixing what's gone wrong, okay?"

The trainer held Tim's gaze until he recovered himself enough to nod in acceptance. Then Tim had to look away, blinking hard to drive back the threat of tears. In under five minutes Barnes had managed to lift a crushing weight from his shoulders, and the relief of it left him shaky and off-balance.

He looked around for Jethro, needing the distraction for a minute. The shepherd was busy working his way around the enclosed yard, tail swaying as he sniffed every grass blade and fence post. As Tim watched the dog lifted his leg and added his mark, his expression one of such deep concentration that Tim couldn't help but smile.

"Let's start with something simple," Barnes said when Tim could look at him again, "You said you haven't had Jethro for long...how did you end up with him?"

Tim snorted, then flushed at his own inelegant response. "Simple? Not quite..."

Barnes's pen was poised over his clipboard, but halfway through the story he gave up trying to write it all down and just listened, one eyebrow creeping slowly higher. When Tim rolled back his sleeve to display the scars on his forearm the trainer whistled low and shook his head.

It helped somehow, seeing this experienced man react with such shock. Tim's team had taken his acceptance of Jethro as a given, as if adopting the dog that mauled him was an everyday occurrence, no different from visiting the local shelter and picking out a furry pal.

"I...I wasn't sure at first," Tim said, "For awhile I didn't...I was a little..."

He swallowed hard and confessed to something that had come to feel shameful.

"I was afraid of him."

"No shit. You don't say."

Barnes' perfect deadpan tone and expression startled a real laugh out of Tim. Still, he felt the need to defend his pet. "He's been great though," he said, "Really. He's just...he's a **good** dog. I regret how it went down, but I don't regret **him**."

This at least Barnes accepted without surprise. He scribbled down some notes before nodding to Tim. "Let's go over why you're here. Try not to leave anything out...how Jethro reacted before and after each incident, where you were and what you were doing...don't worry if something doesn't seem important."

Working as an investigator helped Tim give a detailed and through report. He started with Jethro's strange behavior at the dog park and ended finally with his terror during the storm, stressing just how odd it was for the shepherd to react so violently.

"It's like sometimes he's a different dog. I've been kenneling him during the day...what if he goes after the dog walker? And I'm afraid to have anyone over, even my sister. I just..."

He trailed off but Barnes didn't push, leaning over to pat Tim's knee with an impact that made him wince.

The trainer scribbled down some notes before turning his attention to Jethro. The shepherd came at a run when Barnes called, ever eager to meet someone new and receive the attention he believed was his due. His tail beat against Tim's legs as Barnes scratched under his ears, zeroing in on the spots that made Jethro groan with skilled fingers.

"Well, he's clearly confident in novel environments and seems well-socialized toward strangers," Barnes said with a grin. "Next, I'm going to test his response to distractions and his reaction to pressure. I'll need your help for the first part...just run through what he knows."

Sit. Down. Stay. Roll over. Retrieve. Come. Tim used a mixture of verbal commands and gestures, snapping his fingers or pointing to where he wanted the dog to go. Jethro didn't miss a beat, focusing on Tim with eager eyes as he waited for each new order.

"Good job!" Jethro barked twice, looking well-pleased with his own performance. Tim thumped his ribs in reward, staggering a little when the big shepherd leaned against his legs.

"I don't know any of the working commands," Tim told Barnes once Jethro was calm and back in a sit. "And I can't take credit for any of his training."

That was something Tim had come to be profoundly grateful for. On the rare occasions he'd considered adopting a dog in the past he'd imagined choosing a puppy, a scruffy little mutt he could bond with in those early tender weeks. He knew now that he would have hopeless with a pup, and had come to appreciate his push-button shepherd all the more.

Barnes frowned.

Come to think of it, the man had looked worried whenever Jethro's background as a narcotics dog came up. Even when Tim had first mentioned it over the phone there'd been a brief pause...and that had been before he'd told Barnes about the whole cocaine episode.

"Is it...is it bad that he was a drug dog?" Tim asked, "Dangerous?"

"We'll come back to that. Let's move on and make things a little tougher for your boy..."

The non-answer set off alarm bells in Tim's head, but he accepted the worn tennis ball the trainer held out and waited for instructions. Jethro went on high alert at the sight of it, whimpering high in his throat and quivering with the strain on his doggy will power.

"Give it a good toss, but call him back before he reaches it," Barnes said.

Jethro was almost on top of the ball when Tim shouted after him. The shepherd skidded to a stop and spun in a flurry of dirt, bolting back and throwing himself down for a belly rub at Tim's feet. Tim obliged, so damn proud of his dog even if he couldn't take credit for Jethro's self-control.

The shepherd passed the other tests with the same ease, backing away from treats when ordered and heeding Tim while Barnes gave conflicting commands. The trainer spent some quality time with his clipboard before directing Tim back to his seat.

"For the next part I need you to stay quiet and out of the way. I'm just going to see how he reacts to a bit of stress."

Barnes ran his hands over Jethro's body and down each leg, handling the dog with the familiarity granted by twenty plus years of experience. He even gently squeezed each paw and tugged on the dog's tail and ears. Jethro shifted, but only so he could better lick the man's chin.

It was Tim who tensed.

Barnes released the dog and gave him a minute to settle. When he suddenly clapped his hands Jethro tilted his head and whined his confusion. Tim jumped, his knuckles white from the grip he had on his chair.

The trainer studied the dog for a moment before exploding into motion, waving his arms and stomping his feet. Jethro skittered back...

...then came right at Barnes, crouched low and with his ears pinned flat.

"**Sit**!"

Raw panic gave Tim's shout a whip crack edge. He didn't remember standing, only knew that he was on his feet, caught in an awkward pose as his desire to flee fought against his need to intervene. His hand flew to his hip, and if he'd been carrying he might well have drawn and finished what he'd started months back.

But his gun was at home, and it was too late to tackle the dog, too late to save Barnes from the nightmare Tim himself had survived. In the end there was only one thing Tim could do, and that was to protect himself in the only way available.

He closed his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry with the delay in posting, I was busy with another project for nanowrimo! Thank you again for the reviews!

* * *

"Breathe, Tim. Easy now. Slow. Just breathe."

Tim managed a jerky nod. He tried to straighten but a hand on his neck stopped him before he got far, pushing his head back down between his knees.

'S-sorry," he babbled when he found the air for it, "Shit. I'm...I'm s-sorry. S-stupid."

Humiliation didn't come close to covering what Tim felt in that moment, staring down at the grass and his own shadow. But he'd thought...he'd thought...

"I know," Barnes said, and had Tim spoken aloud? "But Jethro didn't bite me, and he **wasn't** going to. Now shut up for a minute, alright?"

Tim chuckled, hearing the wheeze under it. He closed his eyes, remembering techniques he hadn't needed since he was a boy. Exhale on a sigh. Relax your shoulders. Inhale slowly from the belly. Count five. Exhale on a sigh...

The dog. Lunging through the door, out of the darkness. No pain, not at first. Just pressure, and Tim hadn't known before how strong a dog could be. His team had been so close, just inside, but it had all happened so quickly. They'd been so close, and Tim had never been more alone.

Tim shuddered hard. Reared up, the chair toppling over as he shook off Barnes' hand and fell to pacing.

Jethro paced with him. Whimpering from behind the kennel's fence, distressed by the separation when his owner so clearly needed protection. Barnes had been forced to carry him when the shepherd refused to be pulled away, not understanding why Tim shied back and kicked out.

"I'm sorry," Tim said again, but this time to Jethro. He didn't have the right to be afraid of the dog. Not when he'd faced off against far worse. So many monsters worthy of his nightmares, but it was only Jethro, **always** Jethro...

But he hadn't been Jethro then. Not a monster, either. Just a predator with a blank stare, and in its jaws Tim had been made small.

Made **prey**.

Tim turned and nearly tripped over his fallen chair. He kicked at it, childish frustration that still helped ease the pressure in his chest.

So he threw it, and Barnes' chair after, one landing atop the other with a glorious clatter. The little stool went next, digging a divot in the grass when it landed on its side.

Then there was nothing left in arm's reach save Barnes himself, and that wasn't happening...pissed off or not. The absurd image of himself struggling to lift the other man got Tim laughing. It was raw and ugly, but honest enough.

"Feel better?" Barnes asked when Tim was through.

He felt weak, but..."Yeah, I do." Tim said. He trotted out to retrieve the chairs, shaking his head when Barnes moved to help. Rule 45.

_'Clean up your own mess.' _

Once he had everything back in order Tim dropped into his chair. "I'm really sorry," he said, in case the other man hadn't gotten the message the first dozen times through, "**Incredibly** sorry."

"Tim." Barnes waited for Tim to look up, to face him, and that wasn't an easy thing. "What just happened? That was **my** fault, not yours. I should have done a better job explaining what I had planned."

"You said he wasn't going to bite you. That's..."

"Not what it looked like," Barnes finished when Tim faltered, "To you, yeah, not me. One of the things I'll teach you is how to read canine body language."

He left Tim for a minute and headed to the shed where he kept his equipment. Came back with a thin book, handing it to Tim along with a pack of tissues. It was a simple kindness, the way he didn't make mention of it, and it very nearly unmanned Tim all over again.

Tim flipped through, finding the book full of simple line drawings of dogs. Greeting fellow canines, playing, snarling at strangers...every posture imaginable, and each labeled down to the smallest details. Tim had known a raised tail meant confidence and a tucked tail meant fear. Now he read that a stiff tail meant tension, that a slow wag didn't necessarily mean joy.

"What did you see?" he asked Barnes.

"Jethro was nervous, not aggressive. Before he moved he was sending appeasement signals...licking his lips and avoiding eye contact. When he came toward me, his lip was relaxed and his tail was tucked."

He took the book back, paging through and pointing to a page. The picture showed a dog crouched low, ears laid back, tail tucked under, licking at the corner of another dog's mouth. "Look familiar?"

Tim crushed the tissue in his hand. It did look familiar now, but before...he'd twisted things up, let his bias take control. Some investigator.

"**Don't**, Tim," Barnes said, a little sharply, "**It wasn't your fault. **I screwed up, that's all it comes down to."

"Keep it," he said when Tim tried to give the book back, "You strike me as the type who likes studying up."

He didn't make it a joke, didn't smirk or roll his eyes. Tim nodded his thanks. "S-so now what?" he asked.

Barnes looked over at the dog locked in the kennel. Jethro was settled now because Tim was settled, sitting near the gate and panting in the heat.

"Here's what else I saw today. Jethro is confident in novel environments and well-bonded to you. He responds with tolerance to pressure. There are different kinds of aggression, and I suspect Jethro's episodes are fear based. The question then is what is he afraid of?"

"Noise," Tim said, "That's what you were testing for. But..."

"Doesn't quite fit, does it?" Barnes didn't seem offended in the least by Tim's obvious doubt. "But try to remember...do you recall a car backfiring while you were at the park, a siren in the distance before the incident in the kitchen?"

But try as he might Tim couldn't. They'd been ordinary days, full of ordinary things.

_'Some investigator_,' he thought again, savage with it.

Barnes just nodded. "Now that you're aware this could be a potential problem, try and be more mindful going forward. I'm also going to ask you to set up a vet appointment for Jethro. Anytime there's a sudden change in behavior, it's always a good idea to rule out a physical cause."

It had never occurred to Tim that Jethro might be **hurting**. Losing his hearing, perhaps, and overreacting to certain sounds because of it...

"Right away," he promised Barnes and Jethro by proxy, "I guess I don't understand...I mean, he was an officer."

"And he would have washed out of the program if he overreacted to noise or sudden movement. I suspect this is a new phobia."

Now Barnes was the one avoiding Tim's eyes, looking off to the side with his brow furrowed deep. Tim might be blind to the subtle nuances in the set of a dog's flattened ears, but his fellow man he knew how to read. The man was reluctant. Worried Tim wasn't going to like the rest of it.

Which meant it **was** Tim's fault.

"Oh," he said softly.

He hadn't been the only one traumatized that day.

Barnes had asked about sirens. Backfiring engines. Cop cars. Gunshots.

He tried to see it from the dog's view. His master still and vulnerable. The world gone twisted and unsteady under his feet. A stranger closing in. A terrible noise. And then...

Pain.

Barnes smacked Tim upside the head. Hard.

The familiarity of it made him gasp. "You strike me as a smart guy," Barnes said, "So kindly stop acting like an idiot. If I came at you right now, what would you do?"

He pulled back his fist in demonstration. Tim gestured to his side. No gun, no holster.

"Get hurt? Very badly?"

Barnes rolled his eyes. "You'd defend yourself by whatever means was available. I'd have shot the dog too. I would have been sad about it, sure, but I wouldn't have felt guilty."

It was the first time anyone had told Tim they'd have done the same thing. He said as much, feeling a bit vindicated when Barnes shook his head in despair.

"So all your friends would have what, talked the dog down? I'll bet."

"Truth is...I know I didn't have a choice." Tim had always known, even when Abby had been determined to tell him differently. "I'm just sorry Jethro has to suffer for it."

"Good boy," Barnes said, and it should have made Tim bristle, those words in that tone, so reminiscent of Abby's. But Barnes was smiling and Tim smiled back, happy to have an ally in holding onto the simple truth that self-defense wasn't a crime.

"So I broke him," Tim said, "But how do I fix it?"

_'Shit,'_ he thought when Barnes looked away again, _'What now?' _

"First, you need to decide if you want to try." Barnes held up a hand before Tim could jump in, staring him down until he settled back in his chair. " You said earlier you used to be afraid of Jethro. I think it's pretty obvious you still are, at least in some situations."

Now Tim was the one looking away. "**Hey," **Barnes said, "That's **normal**. You got mauled, Tim. Not nipped, not bitten, **mauled**. You're allowed to be nervous around the dog that did it."

Tim nodded, now staring down at his own hands and the mangled pack of tissues.

"My other concern is Jethro's background. Canine officers are chosen for a reason. They tend to be very high drive...not a dog I would recommend to an inexperienced owner. Part of helping Jethro will involve working with that drive and upping his activity level. That might be difficult given your work hours."

Again Tim nodded. He heard Barnes sigh, long and low.

"Tim, I'm not saying you should give Jethro up," he said, "I just want you to understand this won't be easy. I need to know what your commitment is."

Behind the fence Jethro whined. When Tim looked to him the shepherd wagged his tail and rearing up, planting his front feet against the gate.

Not a monster. Not a predator. Just Jethro.

"He's my dog," Tim said.


	9. Chapter 9

The vet gave Jethro the all clear. Aside from a mild ear infection that had him scratching, the shepherd was the picture of hearty good health.

Tim called Barnes from the parking lot to report the good news. "So when..."

"Right now," Barnes said, "Bring him over and we'll get to work."

* * *

And so the long process of desensitizing the dog began.

They were taking it slow. Puppy steps, Barnes said, with that silly high laugh. Clapping, stomping, whistling. Barnes narrated every ear flick and yawn for Tim and it wasn't so hard after all, putting all those little signs together. The shaking panic during the storm had been anything but subtle, but now Tim could spot its beginnings, the averted eyes and stiff legs that meant Jethro needed a break.

Ignoring the commotion netted the shepherd a treat. Smart dog that he was, it wasn't long before a raised voice had him wagging his tail.

Barnes reminded Tim that anticipation wasn't the same as comfort. They backed off on the rewards, barely paid the dog any attention at all while they raised a ruckus in the middle of the yard.

It took a few days. But then came a session when Barnes jerked his head to the side and wiggled his brows. Tim looked over...and there was Jethro snoozing in the heat, legs twitching with pleasant doggy dreams. Oblivious.

"Puppy steps," Barnes said, "That was step one. Ready for the next?"

* * *

When he wasn't straining his voice yelling like a fool, Tim was running Jethro through Barnes' makeshift agility course. Between the weave poles, up the A frame, through the tunnel.

The equipment was handmade. Sturdy and utilitarian, but still beautiful for the obvious care that had gone into it. It made Tim think of a boat taking slow shape in a basement.

"He's got the stuff," Barnes told Tim as they trotted past, "You could give it a real go."

But Tim wasn't interested in ribbons and trophies. All he wanted was a happy dog and restful nights.

There was flyball too, Jethro's new favorite game. Tim's too, since it meant standing off the side and letting the shepherd do the work.

And it was beautiful to watch, a canine ballet. A signal, and Jethro was off. Racing down the aisle, floating over the hurdles in his path. Smacking a big paw down on the spring-loaded pad, mouth already gaped wide, ready and eager to accept the prize as it popped out of the machine.

Glory, glory, hallelujah. **A tennis ball.**

Sprinting back, so damn proud of himself, always running a circle around Tim before consenting to give up his slimy treasure.

Yeah, flyball was kind of awesome.

* * *

And between flyball and agility, between desensitization exercises and advanced obedience sessions, there was jogging.

Just a few miles at first. Every day a block further at a faster pace. Until finally Jethro was the one dragging his feet and begging to go home.

Because even Barnes agreed a good dog was a tired dog, and an exhausted Tim didn't dream.

The nightmares came almost every night now. The panic attack in front of Barnes had rattled something loose, so that night after night Tim woke gasping, shaking, fearful of the dark. "You need to talk to someone." The trainer had made it a statement, matter-of-fact. Nothing to be ashamed of, and if only Tim could bring himself to believe it!

He **hadn't** been ashamed when he'd floundered in the past. When his father's voice whispering in his ears had drowned out his instructors, Tim hadn't hesitated to get help. No more than he would have refused the hospital if he'd broken a bone.

But in college everyone around him had been floundering too, discovering together that intelligence didn't guarantee success. Things were different now. **He** was different now. He was meant to be **stronger**.

But Tim knew Barnes was right. Jethro would sense his fear and it would feed the dog's anxiety. Not a good combination.

Not a **safe** combination.

So Tim starting researching. Just as he had when he looked for a dog trainer, only this time it was his mind he was instructing to a stranger's care.

This was going to take some time.

* * *

Tony stopped by Tim's desk. Made a show of looking him up and down, rubbing his chin with a speculative air. "Looking good, but still a little chubby around the cheeks, McBabyfat. I hear they can suck that right out."

"Jealously isn't a good look for you, Tony," Tim said, "Trying exercising more than just your mouth and you might catch up."

He knew he was being unfair. Taking out his fatigue on his teammate, what should have been playful banter coming out with a cutting edge that had Tony eying him warily.

"McGee."

Tim cringed and smiled over at Gibbs. "Still working on the search, Boss. Shouldn't be long now."

Gibbs nodded at that, but he didn't turn back to his computer. He just **stared**, until Tim could feel that hateful flush crawl up his cheeks and roost in his ears.

He cracked after a pitiful thirty seconds. "Boss? Is there som-"

"You look like crap, McGee."

The man seemed satisfied with that, looking to his own screen without waiting for Tim to sputter out a response.

Tony laughed. **Loudly**. "Hey, McGeek, maybe..."

"Tony." Gibbs peered over, one brow lifting high. "**Work**. "

* * *

It was all piling up. Tim was weary and worried and there was a burning in his belly that antacids couldn't touch.

But it was worth it.

It was worth it because it was **working**. Jethro hadn't had an Incident (capital 'I' in Tim's mind, always) since they'd started working with Barnes. There'd even been a storm a few nights back, a real test. They hadn't gotten to the recordings of thunder and gunshots yet, focusing on quick movements and flashing lights first.

But Jethro had slept through. Slept easy, too worn out by their earlier run to muster any panic.

Despite the improvement, Tim was still kenneling the dog during the day. He just couldn't take the risk that something would spook Jethro while he was out with the dog walker.

Barnes had very generously agreed to keep the shepherd in one of his own runs, a much better alternative to the hands-off care Tim had arranged with Red Rooster. He trusted Barnes to handle the dog and it didn't hurt that the cost was so much lower. So low, in fact, that Tim suspected Barnes felt rather sorry for him.

Tim didn't protest. He couldn't afford to be proud.

Even the discounted fee on top of the training costs was straining his budget. No cushion, no breathing room, and Tim chaffed at knowing he was one unexpected emergency away from pulling out a credit card.

He thought once of Gibb's backyard. Big, shady, with a good tall fence. **Free**.

And just as quickly dismissed the notion. The Boss had made it clear that Jethro was Tim's problem.

He would have been fine if the penalty fees from breaking his publishing contract hadn't drained his savings account dry. He'd only just started to recover from that financial blow, and even selling the Porsche hadn't put him back on solid ground.

Now he thought of cutting the last ties and selling the Remington. Every extra dollar would be a help, and really she deserved a better home. Deserved an owner who would put her to use. A fanciful notion, juvenile really, but to see her sitting silent, dust gathering on her keys...

It hurt.

Tim was an author. It wasn't a title he wanted, but now that he'd been published he would carry it to the end of his days.

But he wasn't a writer. Not anymore.

He'd tried. Just for his own pleasure, striving for the passion that once made his heart race. There'd been nothing there.

Nothing at all.

She really did deserve better.

Instead Tim sold the couch. It was almost new, bought only a few weeks after a crazed fan had threatened Abby's life. Buying it had been a concession, a surrender. He'd never been one for television, but the nights had been so much longer without writing to fill his time. Inane reality shows and poorly researched procedurals had been a way to while away the hours.

It was no great sacrifice when the buyer hauled it away. The television returned to its old spot on the bedroom wall. And it wasn't as if Tim entertained frequently...or at all, really.

* * *

**One day.** One day after the sectional was hauled away, and here was Sally at his door. Big things or small, the universe hated Tim.

"I hope you don't mind. I figured you had to live close by, so I just asked around a little."

They'd had to shift things about to get the couch out. The apartment was in a state, and Tim tried hard not to look too embarrassed by it. He showed Sally to the kitchen and put on some coffee, hiding the generic brand with his hand.

"It turns out everyone knows you." Sally had Tilly tucked under her arm. The little dog hung there like a bizarre fashion accessory, eyeing the canister of doggy treats on the container with interest. "Or Jethro, at least. They recognize you as the guy who runs everything with the big scary dog."

She looked around for the shepherd. "He's shut in the bedroom," Tim supplied, "I didn't know who was at the door."

Sally blushed and picked at a fingernail. "I hope you don't mind," she said again, "It's just...you disappeared on us, Tim. We were worried."

Tim got the impression the 'we' she spoke of was of the royal variety. The thought warmed him right through. It had never occurred to him that he might be **missed**.

"Thank you." There was confusion in her eyes at the gratitude, so out of proportion for the simple act of checking on a friend, but Tim just smiled and brushed aside his own reaction. "Jethro...he's been having some problems."

Sally sipped her coffee as Tim told her of the Incidents and the trainer who was helping Jethro through his phobias. And it was so nice, to talk to someone who understood, who knew what it was to share a bond with a creature so alien yet so recognizable.

"I didn't know..." There were tears in her eyes, confusing Tim at first until she reached to touch his neck, making him shiver when she traced the edge of the scar there. "He could have killed you."

In return for his story she gave her own. Another auction. Tiny wire cages, filthy, frantic dogs. Puppy mill rejects, used up bitches and ancient males, pups too deformed or stunted for the pet store. Sold cheap to other breeders hoping to squeeze out one last litter.

Sally and the other volunteers had been there to document the sad scene, and **only** to document. Rescuing a dog would have meant buying one, and that meant more money in the breeder's pocket. Money that would be used to buy more dogs...real rescue would only come through legislation, and for that they needed the public on their side. So they took photos when no one was watching, even managed a bit of video of the maggots squirming across a poodle's gangrenous paw.

The auction was wrapping up when Sally saw her. No different from all the others, really, just one last shivering little hound. Legs like toothpicks, rotting brown teeth, chewed ears. There was no meeting of eyes, no sudden connection, but Sally...

She couldn't walk away. Not this time.

Ten dollars. That's all Tilly's life had been worth.

Tilly had been born in a cage. She froze when confronted with grass. Tip-toed across linoleum. Scurried away from a kind hand. The world had gotten so much bigger, and she was so very small.

"But look at her now," Sally said. Dragging around Jethro's battered teddy with brave little snarls, doing battle with an opponent that outweighed her...and winning.

They grinned together at her antics. Sally's smile faded first. "Tim..."

"It wasn't his fault."

_'Or mine,'_ Tim reminded himself.

"Can I see him?" Sally asked.

Tim hesitated. His head knew it was safe. Barnes had exposed Jethro to a few of his friends, testing his reactions to strangers, and always the dog had been welcoming. And anyway, Sally **wasn't** a stranger.

She was a friend.

Still...

"It's okay." Sally smiled again to show she took no offense. "Maybe next time. You could talk to his trainer."

Next time meant she intended to visit again. "Sure," Tim agreed, "Next time."

* * *

"Bring her by," Barnes said easily, "I think you'll feel better if you reintroduce them under controlled conditions. But Tim..."

Tim was down on one knee, fussing over Jethro after another run through the agility course. They'd beaten their best time, shaving off six seconds, and that called for a celebration. He looked up at Barnes' tone.

"You can't use Jethro as an excuse to cut yourself off. In another month he'll be graduating...with honors, no less. You have to learn to trust him."

Tim turned back to his dog, enduring the tongue lashing his face. Jethro reared up, planting a muddy paw on Tim's shoulder.

In that moment trust was there and came easy. But at night...

It was different when Barnes wasn't there to intervene if something went wrong. Different when Tim was alone.

"I'm working on it." Racing through the course, guiding Jethro through the obstacles, no leash between them but still a connection. Tim only needed to think of what he wanted, and it wasn't as if they were one, no, it was like they **understood** each other. A rare thing for Tim, to be understood. "I...I made an appointment. Like we talked about. I know it's not him...it's me."

* * *

A week later Jethro put Tim in the hospital.


	10. Chapter 10

As always, thank you for the reviews. And a special thank you to earthdragon- your suggestion helped this chapter more or less write itself (I may possibly have forgotten that Ducky, you know, **existed**)

* * *

The doctor was young and chatty, all too eager to tell Tim how much worse things could have been. "Just a little lower and he'd have caught your hamstring," she said cheerfully while she scrubbed and blotted and stitched, "You got lucky."

She was right, but that scarcely made Tim feel better. What if Jethro **had** chomped down on tendon? If Tim had fallen, would the dog have let him get back up again?

As it was, it took ten sutures to close the gaping hole in the back of Tim's calf. Tim yawned through the process, trying to enjoy the numbness while he could. He was well acquainted with the fierce ache that was to come.

"Keep it clean and dry," the doctor told him when she was through, "And keep off the leg as much as possible for the rest of the week. You said you had proof of rabies vaccination for the animal?"

Tim handed over the paperwork. He was impressed with himself for remembering to bring it along, though the blood smears meant he'd need to get a new copy. The doctor copied the information into her file, and Tim didn't miss her frown when she saw the owner's name matched her patient's.

He was grateful when she let it pass unremarked. "Right then. A nurse will be in with your discharge instructions and meds, then you're free to go."

It was only then that Tim realized he couldn't return to his apartment.

The thought made his stomach roil, make his heart lurch with jackrabbit panic. Home...to his dog, to the blood on the floor...

Maybe in the morning. Maybe. But not now, before he'd even had a chance to think things through. Before he'd had a chance to understand what he'd done **wrong**.

The nurse came and went. Tim found himself in the waiting room of the emergency department, paperwork in one hand and dreaded bottle of antibiotics in the other. He slumped down into a chair, stretching out his bandaged leg.

_'Think.'_ A herculean task at the moment between the shock and the exhaustion. **_'Think_**_...'_

He had Sally's number but it was late, edging toward 3am. Besides she barely knew him...it would be too big a favor to ask.

A motel? But the cost...

He scrolled idly through the contacts in his phone as he considered. Idly, because most of the people on the list weren't friends. Just colleagues, people Tim trusted to have his back in the field and **only** in the field. Not when he was sore and bewildered and afraid to go home.

Until finally a name caught his eye. Tim hesitated...

* * *

Ducky took one look at Tim and frowned. Tim held up a hand.

"Don't ask," he said, "**Please**."

Ducky ushered him out to the car, clucking and fussing but doing it quietly. "Right you are, Timothy," he said, "Bed first. Questions later. We'll pick up your car in the morning."

He was true to his word and within half an hour Tim was stripped down to his boxers and tucked beneath a mound of quilts in Ducky's guest room. Ducky tutted at him when Tim fumbled with the alarm on the nightstand.

"Now, Timothy, I know you're far too smart a fellow to even consider reporting to work today."

Tim groaned. That had actually been the last thing on his mind, but now...what would he tell Gibbs? The injury would keep him out of the field for a few days even if he ignored Ducky's suggestion to call in (and let's face...he'd be utterly useless at the moment.) He wasn't fool enough to play the stoic and put someone else at risk because his leg crumbled at a bad moment.

And he couldn't ask Ducky to lie for him, not even by omission.

Ducky nudged the clock out of reach. "I'll talk to Jethro," he offered. Punch drunk with fatigue, Tim almost giggled at the mental image of the other man confronting a sheepish German shepherd. He should have changed the name long ago, Abby's insistence be damned. "You just rest, lad."

Tim lay back with quick obedience, but as soon as Ducky left the room he took up the clock and set the alarm for 7am, the earliest he felt comfortable intruding on someone.

Maybe he would feel comfortable going home in the morning.

But if not, he would need to make a call.

* * *

The clock was a red smear to his gritty eyes. Tim smacked at it until the obnoxious buzz cut off, biting back a groan.

He hurt.

The numbness had long since worn off. His calf throbbed, a rotten, muddy pulse that traveled up his leg and settled in his lower back. For a moment Tim lay still, trying to remember why he'd done something so foolish as to wake himself from the little sleep he'd managed.

Then he remembered, and lay still a while long to gather his courage. Could he? Walk in the front door, feed Jethro, go on like nothing had happened...

It didn't take long to come to a decision.

"I-I'm very s-sorry for bothering you s-so early..."

"What happened?" Barnes asked, and so much for Tim's hope of seeming calm and unaffected.

"Tim?" Barnes prodded after a silent moment passed.

"I don't know," Tim whispered, "I don't know."

* * *

"You gotta stop scratching, buddy." Tim used a gauze square to spread a thin layer of salve over the tender, swollen patch just in front of Jethro's left ear, paying special attention to the welt where the dog's nails had scored flesh. "You don't want the cone, do you?""

The threat drew a whimper. The drops were next, three in each ear. Jethro grumbled about it, then apologized by licking Tim's fingers.

Tim laughed and flicked the shepherd's nose. They'd just come back from a run, leaving Tim slightly shaky in the pleasant way that came from hard exercise.

It also left him in dire need of a shower.

The cool water felt delicious on his over-heated skin. Tim lingered, stretching into the spray, thinking already of his bed. Maybe a gaming session first. Just a short one.

First, dinner. Tim threw on some sweats and went to work on something slightly more ambitious than his usual frozen fare. He could cook, and fairly decently at that...he just didn't often find it worth the bother. It always made him feel a little silly, dicing and slicing, dirtying up pans, and for what? Himself?

It hardly seemed worth it.

He was measuring out the rice when he heard the pitter patter of soft-pawed feet. Jethro peeked around the counter, scanning the floor for any tidbits that had fallen into his domain. Tim rolled his eyes and tossed the dog a chunk of carrot.

"Go lay down," he said, with emphasis enough to make it clear it was a command, not a suggestion, "You can have a bit when it's finished."

This was take two. Yesterday's try had come out too salty, the shrimp just a tad tough and overcooked. Tim wanted the dish to be perfect for Sally's visit on Sunday.

He left the pans to soak when dinner was through, this time well-satisfied with the end result. Jethro had likewise seemed happy with the grits and single shrimp Tim had ladled into his dish. Accolades all around.

Now the dog was splayed out in the living room, heavy and lazy after his regular dinner of wet beefy mush. Tim walked past on his way to investigate his shelves for a little light reading...

There had been no sirens, distant or otherwise. The television in the bedroom was off, so there'd been no gunfire or shouts from that direction. No neighbors stomping upstairs, no kids roughhousing out in the street, no rumble of thunder.

Nothing.

It had been like that time in the park. Jethro lurched to his feet, bristling up. Eyes fixed and narrowed, ears laid flat, and when he growled there was fear in it.

Tim froze.

_'Jethro looks to you for protection and guidance. If you're afraid, he'll know it...and if the master is afraid, any smart dog will be terrified.' _

Barnes' advice helped Tim relax his shoulders. He drew in a deep, slow breath and forced a smile. "Enough," he said, but mildly, "Jethro, that's enough now."

And that seemed to be the end of it. Jethro yawned (_appeasement signal,_ Tim thought) and collapsed back down into an ungainly puddle of shepherd. He looked at ease, all that tension dissipated into the ether. Tim turned away.

He made it perhaps five steps before the dog was on him.

No little nip this time. This time Jethro bit down and **shook**. Tim wasn't sure if he screamed, but he thought he might have, thought that might explain his sore throat and hoarse voice.

Reflex made him kick back with his free leg, catching Jethro an awkward blow to the snout. The shepherd yipped and jumped away. Huddled there, tail contritely tucked, looking up at Tim with wounded innocence.

Just a good dog.

With blood on his teeth.

* * *

"I didn't...I didn't **do** anything, I s-swear. But I can't...I'm s-sorry, I just **can't**..."

"I'll take him for a few days," Barnes said, just that easily, "Tell me where you are and I'll come get your key. We can discuss where to go next after you've had a chance to heal a bit."

Tim nodded despite knowing the man couldn't see him. "Just don't...don't hurt him. It wasn't..."

"Sometime it's nobody's fault, Tim. Sometimes no matter how hard you try, things still go wrong."

Now Tim was shaking his head, almost frantic, because that sounded an awful lot like Barnes was giving up on Jethro. "Maybe there..." He had to stop and swallow hard, the panic burning like bile in the back of his already raw throat. "Maybe there **was** a s-siren or s-something."

"Tim." Sharp, firm, the tone that set Jethro back on his heels. "We'll discuss it **later**. Tell me where you are."

Tim did, hoping Ducky wouldn't mind the intrusion. It was odd how there was no question in Tim's mind about trusting Barnes with his own key and information...no question at all. "C-call first," he said, hating his stutter, so much more evident now than it had been for years, "I'll m-meet you outside."

Barnes hummed tunelessly while he jotted down the address.

"Tim," he said, "It's going to be okay."

Tim laughed. "S-sure."

* * *

Tim wasn't sure how long he sat there, cradling the silent phone. A soft sound at the doorway made him turn.

How long had Ducky been there?

"Time for your pills," was all other man said. He brought in a platter and placed it over Tim's knees. Oatmeal, with just a hint of cream and brown sugar. "And don't try to get out of taking the Vicodin, Timothy."

But Tim was happy enough to swallow down the chalky white pill. The throbbing was very close now, hammering in time with his pulse. Even without looking at this leg he could feel the swelling, the stitches biting deep into tight, tender flesh.

Ten minutes later, belly full and pleasantly buzzed from the pain pill, Tim was feeling decidedly better about...well, everything.

"Now," Ducky announced, twisting around to sit on the edge of the bed, "I'm afraid it's time for questions."

Canny old bastard.

But Tim knew he owed the man honesty after dragging him out in the middle of the night. "Jethro bit me." Short, succulent, to the point.

Gibbs would be proud.

"I gathered that." So Ducky **had** overheard Tim's conversation with Barnes. Had overheard Tim whining and blubbering like a child. "And?"

Tim sighed.

"That's all. He had a bad moment, but we've been working with a trainer. We'll get it straightened out."

_'We'_...as if the dog had any role in fixing himself. As if it weren't all on Tim.

"He's done this before?" Ducky asked.

"Not like this." Though not for lack of trying. Tim remembered the splatter of dog spit on his cheeks when Jethro had lunged for his face, the way it had dried tacky and flaking. "It's no big deal, Ducky."

Ducky just looked at him. Frowning again at what he saw, and Tim...

...he was just so damn tired.

"I rather think it is, lad," Ducky said, "I rather think it is."


End file.
